


11:23 pm

by persesphone



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, PeterMJ - Freeform, Peterchelle, Precious Peter Parker, School Dances, Short & Sweet, Soft Peter Parker, Spideychelle, has a little difficulty with finding the courage to get his date out on the dancefloor, michelle takes charge, short and sweet, soft!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persesphone/pseuds/persesphone
Summary: "Dance with me and pretend the whole world doesn’t exist?” He asks, wiping his hands on his pants before outstretching for her. There's a nervous tick of his tongue darting out, of his eyebrows arching and drawing together.“You know I don't dance,” her voice comes out surprisingly soft, in a whisper.Peter only smiles. In one firm tug, he pulls her to her feet and they're nearly chest to chest. He's smiling so widely. "Aw, MJ, you're blushing!""Shut up, Parker..."





	11:23 pm

Spider-Man is famous.

Not celebrity famous. Like, he isn't Rihanna or Beyonce-level famous—is that even accomplishable?—but the fact that his face is printed on t-shirts, on tourist merchandise,made into balloons and small, cheap beanies, and printed on newspapers every week if photographers can manage, this certainly means something, right? There were wanted posters, tabloid ads calling him a menace, and _thank you_  tapestries thrown over balconies of buildings and printed across crawl screens, and on the mile-long messages trailing airplanes—sometimes all in the same _month_ , too. There have been podcast-long YouTube “investigation” series by both middle schoolers and the middle-aged, reporters stalking for interviews, and impersonators, imposters that make the police look like idiots when capturing one of them.

Spider-Man is famous. As famous as he could be in his small bubble of this side of New York. His name is known a ridiculous amount, and it’s for being crafty, for being tricky to catch, for outsmarting self medicating madmen and the deranged, the incarcerated, and the policemen; it’s for the messes of artificial webbing spun into catchy phrasing and for being arrows pointing to the captured awaiting pickup; it’s for being like _a little spider_.

Spider-Man is famous.

Peter Parker, his actual persona, not so much.

* * *

 

Both are the same person. Both are one and the same. It would be much easier in life to reveal this.

This, however, is not a good conversation opener for  a date.

* * *

 

Her name is MJ. Michelle, actually, and Michelle J Watson, more formally.

She's unmanaged tangles of curls and waves, full chapstick-slick lips that frown, pout, and snark; she's frumpy hoodies, stretchy headbands, and scrunchies around her wrist that she always, somehow, manages to accidentally dip in her food. Lingering eyes, narrowed and grating, nearly _offensive_. Long eyelashes, lemon and honey tea, and cocoa butter. A voice that’s both cotton soft and condescending. A tall, lithe frame, steel-strong posture and pride, and light brown skin that turns golden in the sunlight.

She's MJ Watson and she's everything that Peter wants, wants to keep. And he grows weak willed from her attention, gets queasy and lightheaded under her glare, he buckles at the knees from her finger under his chin.

And he's lucky she even agreed to go to this school dance with him. Peter’s lucky, he feels, he _knows_. There had been a whole fiasco with his aunt, of her throwing her arms up, whispering “yes!” when thinking he couldn't hear, and him finding out she’d been rooting about this far longer than Peter felt comfortable with.

Peter feels he's lucky that Michelle even mumbled out a low “ok, I guess” when he asked her because, for one, she once vowed to never, ever, _ever_  attended another dumb school function again after last year; two, because she couldn't dance and wouldn't go if the last man on Earth who asked her; and more importantly, three, in the nine minutes it took her to answer, Peter nearly actually passed out from short-circuiting nerves. And, the fact that he meets her in a navy blue dress, and him swallowing his tongue and any coherent sentences, isn't so good. 

The introduction could have gone better.

* * *

 

He hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before, and he can tell that she hadn't either. So when he's crushing the empty plastic punch cup between a fist, them both having been at a purple covered table for maybe _hours_ , and asking her opinion on dancing the last few songs before the end of the night, Michelle gives him a look, and it’s _a look_ that makes Peter double back on his words. She's pouting, harshly _glaring_ ; her initial refusal isn't at all surprising.

In the corner, there’s a couple watching them suspiciously, having been the few ones who sat and talked a majority of the school event.

The weekend before, they had gone out to an art museum—a _not-date_ that Peter orchestrated after picking up on her enthusiasm about a new exhibit—and he _may have_  unintentionally gushed about enjoying the time they spend together, about her making him want to be a better person, slipping out the feelings that they've shared but it’s never been put out in the open, into _words_. She had gone quiet then, like she is now. That had been their first date.

Michelle refuses to dance with Peter Parker, so he shuffles off through the weaning crowds of attendees to the sherbet-punch bowl. Earlier that night, there had been rumor that someone tried to spike it, but it was quickly switched out for a fresh bowl. A small lump of sherbet is still melting in his cup when he returns. He tries not to seem too disappointed as he stands and converses with friends. However, his “conversation” is more of a pep talk. And with slumped shoulders, lip pink from gnawing, and brows a deep worrying arch, Peter reproaches his date with a crumbling confidence.

She's scrolling through her cellphone when he sits in the hard, fold-out chair, the metal too cold and too hard for his comfort. His fingers alternate between drumming the tabletops’s cloth, fisting, and flexing his fingers across the surface. He fidgets, gathering himself; as he's readying to stand and ask her again like he was advised, she speaks up first, nodding toward the teachers hovering near the DJ, noting that the school dance must be nearing it’s end.

“It’s going to be ending soon.” She's watching at him and there’s something within the look she's giving. “ We can leave and go to another event after this, if you want. Or... You don't have to leave for,” she pauses, shrugs, “something?”

Peter frowns, shaking his head. The song playing hits the chorus. The students have been steadily dwindling as the night wore on; Ned had been pulled off somewhere by a student from French class. Several other students Peter recognized hooked up in new relationships, broke up, or left for the night, laughing and giggling with friends.

The second verse for the song plays and Peter asks for Michelle’s hand a second time. She refuses. The hook repeats comes on, and she wavers. The chorus plays, Peter lowly singing along, “ _lost in your light...I want to stay right here.... Let’s get lost in the light_ ,” and Michelle hesitates.

“You know I don't dance,” her voice comes out surprisingly soft, in a whisper.

Peter only smiles. In one firm tug, he grabs her hand, pulls her to her feet and they're nearly chest to chest. “Don't pay attention to all of them. Don't pay attention to anyone else. **Dance with me and pretend the whole world doesn’t exist**.”

She's quiet, phone dangling, forgotten at her side. She's blushing, he can tell by her actions.

They’re dancing, a gentle, individual rock and sway along with the fast beat of the song. When it ends, Peter holds Michelle’s wrist before she can glance back at her phone, and proceeds to slow dance—or, _tries_ to slow dance. And he really tries.

“Watch the hands,” she warns. A dark brow raises watching him scramble to remember the positions instructed by his aunt merely hours ago—a hand under her shoulders and the other holding her hand.

He’s nervous. He hopes that she can't tell how much his hands are sweating.

Michelle squirms uncomfortably. Rolling her shoulders to lose his grip, she groans. “Not...not there. No. Stop. Just...” She can _feel_  him freeze when she grabs his wrists, _hears_ his breaths shaking from fallen surety as one’s lowered to the small of her back, her hand tightly gripping his shoulder, bringing them together, and her fingers of her other weaving between his.

This song is slower, and Peter’s eyes lower from hers that are much stronger. He's bright pink in the dim lights; it’s neither romantic or dancelike.

“Are you ok?” She asks, noting his sudden lack of words.

Glancing between their shoes and the lessening dancers on the floor, Peter only nods.

“Hey.” He's obedient as a finger turns his head back to her. “I thought you said to focus, pretend that the whole world isn't around. You're slacking.” She grins.

Snapping back to her, bouncing off, returning with a blush, he bleats, “sorry MJ.”

By the second chorus, feet are shuffling at the same pace, chests are thumping at a steadying slowing flutter, and hands are slightly less sweaty. The second bridge plays and Peter’s forehead lowers to her shoulder. By the end of the song, his eyes are closed and she's got her cheek resting at a slant in his hair.

Following, by request of the teachers, the DJ plays the telltale “Closing Time” song. The last remains of student attendees are herded to throw away punch-filled cups and small used paper plates. The catered aluminum dishes of food are empty. On the tile dance floor, Peter nuzzles his head in Michelle’s shoulder, breathing her in and the spritz of perfume her mother lent; she's got one hand draped around his shoulders and the other caressing his scalp as they slowly sway, ignoring the melody. They're unbelievably close—unbelievably compared that just a year ago he hadn't been on her radar of being in her league—he believes. It’s unbelievable because knowing Michelle, such a tender moment would not have been welcomed on the average. And with Peter nuzzled so close to her neck, periodically leaving lazy, close-mouthed kisses across her skin, praising her in the soft persona of his, she nearly melts, wishing to dash off for privacy, to envelop him in her arms and pursue the continuity of this.

**Author's Note:**

> this short something was based off the prompt "soft boi Peter Parker at the school dance and I saw a prompt that said “Dance with me and pretend the whole world doesn’t exist” and I just thought it was hella cute." This is also posted on my tumblr
> 
> i really liked the way @spidertams on tumblr draws peter...and was kind of an inspiration as i wrote this...  
> and yeah, i like to call michelle's last name watson at times, at least until her last name is officially told.


End file.
